


Ostinato

by CountingWithTurkeys



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person, Pre-Bubbline, Tags Are Hard, fluffy feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 12:19:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13998198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountingWithTurkeys/pseuds/CountingWithTurkeys
Summary: You're not sure why she disappears every year, but that odd flutter in your chest knows you need to help.





	Ostinato

**Author's Note:**

> Real talk: Wow, this has been an uncomfortably long break for me. Now that my degree is coming to a close I've needed to start hunting for a job that doesn't involve the grant I'm working with. I'd love to support or partially support myself with writing, but that's not the way the world works, sadly.
> 
> This story had three goals for me. The first is that I realized I haven't done much starring Bonnie since Cavatina, so I had to fix that. The second is that this made for a nice writing experiment. Finally, I received a lot of indication that you all liked seeing stories from the beginning of Bonnie and Marceline's relationship, so I'm happy to oblige.
> 
> Disclaimer: All of my stories exist within the same universe/continuity - The Symphony Universe - which exists within main canon in a "possible but not necessarily probable" manner. They're just not posted chronologically, because where's the fun in that? All stories contain at least one reference to a future story, because I roll that way. They often contain references to past stories. They also usually hint where they happen within the canon continuity. I like hints.
> 
> Content Warnings:
> 
> Feels, but it's mostly fluff in disguise

It happened again.

To be honest, you’re not sure how long this has been going on. In a rare lapse of judgment you just weren’t paying attention. That’s the problem with being immortal: time passes differently than it does for mortals, its meaning subjective and, in any event, largely unimportant until you’re faced with a significant time constraint or the need for immaculate timing. One day you’ll have to calculate the exact ratio of time dilation for someone like you. At worst it’ll be a nice mental exercise, at best you’ll learn something no one else ever has, as is typical for you. But for the moment that’s neither here nor there, because you have a more pressing mystery to solve.

The both of you try to take a meal together at least a few times a week. You’re often engrossed in your individual projects, tasks that can suck you in and drain your attention dry. Not that it ever matters; really, when you do find one another again it’s like no time has passed at all. She’s your best friend, has been for decades, and you both so effortlessly pick up right where you left off, wherever that is. She often disappears on you for days at a time, but there’s always a method to her madness, and most of the time she at least gives you a heads up about where she’s going, though admittedly she possesses a poor internal clock and isn’t always accurate about how long she’ll be gone. But you have your own quirks.

You first noticed the trend years ago, but it took some time for you to recognize it as a pattern of behavior. A worrying one. Still, it is always, always better to be sure of a situation before diving in. A hypothesis is always better than a snap judgment, especially where she’s concerned. She’s special and deserves better than your typical rash condemnation. You may not have known each other long - what’s a few decades to two immortals? - but you already know that. The signs have been there for a long time now.

You had your first inkling of that to be true five years ago just a vague suspicion really, but when you introduced her to your brother you knew for certain. She’s a prankster, and mischievous beyond all that’s logical and reasonable, but was nothing but kind and gentle with your last remaining ounce of family, accepting him exactly as he is without hesitation. Even after he was out of earshot there were no disparaging comments, no snark at all; the closest she came was a quip that she saw the family resemblance, but even that was said with a smile that wasn’t unkind.

That was the first time you felt the flutter in your chest. It wouldn’t be the last.

With a frown you glance out the window. You never remember how big and empty your cabin is until she’s gone. The same tan wood, just as it was when your great uncle built the thing when you were a child, before you relieved him of the burden of intellect. You’re sat at a table in the dining area, a simple brown rectangle with two chairs, not that she ever sat in it. You twirl the spaghetti with your fork, dragging it across the soft pink dinner plate aimlessly. It’s too quiet without her laughter, too empty, and it turns your stomach. With a sigh you glance out the window. It’s well-beyond dark now, and she still hasn’t arrived for breakfast. This is the one day of the week you both promised you’d at least check in with one another, if nothing else just so she knows you’ve slept and eaten and so that you’re reassured that she’s Truly Dead,  and that she’s in one piece.

You push your plate away. In truth you had suspected this would happen; every year, perhaps a week before this particular day, she would always grow withdrawn and tense. You don’t know how to tactfully draw attention to it without her running. That’s what she does when she feels cornered, a reaction that you don’t quite understand just yet but know, in time, you will. You don’t want her to run from you, just the very idea is sick and wrong. But just as you cannot find a way to gently broach the topic you cannot let it be. Your overly-analytical mind won’t leave a puzzle alive, and that weird flutter in your chest won’t leave  _ her  _ alone. Her thoughts aren’t a great place, and you can’t in good conscience (when did you develop one of those?) leave her alone with them for long. 

So you planned, and you made sure you didn’t miss this opportunity; a calendar featuring a large and happy tan and white cat sees the day circled several times. You had dressed for the occasion, with simple lavender pants, a bright pink hoodie, and simple red sneakers. Your hair is already tied back, because you  _ knew  _ that today was the day, and you would have to go track her down. Your pack is already by the door, filled with nonsense devices to give the illusion that you were out and about for your own motives, that you just happened to run into her completely accidentally. Of course, you didn’t know  _ exactly  _ where she went, just a rough idea really, but you’ve always been a scavenger, always an expert in finding exactly what you need.

The almost miniscule tracking device you slipped on her bass certainly doesn’t hurt either.

With a sigh you push yourself into a standing position, not even bothering to put your uneaten meal in the fridge. That’s Future Bonnibel’s problem. You hate passing your duties onto her, but your best friend is more important. You know you’ll need to act fast; she’s slippery, and without knowing what her prerogative is you have no idea where she is, how long she’ll be there, or if she’s even okay. If you miss her at her destination you’ll have to wait another year to solve the mystery. Time might move quickly for you, but it’s still frustrating. You deal with frustration well under most circumstances, but once again she makes everything different. And so you snatch your yellow messenger bag, slipping it across your shoulder with practiced grace and put your plan in motion.

You barely register the click of the door closing behind you, too focused on sliding your hand into the bag to retrieve the handheld receiver you built, the partner to the tracking device. It’s a crude thing, really: a grey and black rectangular box with a simple dual-eared antennae, a pale green digital interface and half a dozen unlabelled buttons. If she were here she’d make a joke that you really should start labelling your junk - electronics, specimen jars, dangerous chemicals - and you find yourself missing the teasing. There’s no reason for that painful twinge in your heart, the one that pushes the fluttering feeling away, but you have a sinking wariness that wherever she goes isn’t for positive reasons. You have no logical reason to believe this, of course. But logic never applies to her.

You think you like it that way.

The moment you power on the device it triggers. It knows where she is, and you breathe a sigh of relief that she hasn’t retreated somewhere you would be unable to reach her. The small red dot flashes, bursting in an angular radius to indicate that her journey is going to take her south, into the Grasslands proper. With a quick scan of your surroundings you heft your bag steady, then let the blinking dot guide you to your goal. It looks like a straight line, a simple journey, and you breathe another relieved sigh; it means she’s not hiding, and you hope that means the trek will be quick. Regardless, your heart pounds. You tell yourself it’s the thrill of knowing that you’re about to solve an important mystery. But that odd heart flutter knows better.

The tracker takes you around Butterscotch Lake, across the bushy green fields of the Grasslands. As the scenery changes you find yourself relaxing. You’re approaching one of your most favorite areas in all of Ooo; the wild plant life is giving way to pale yellow brush, softer than it looks, almost fuzzy. You have a dream of building a home here, large and beautiful. One day you will, you know that. You’ve had it planned for months, years even; a large castle, a palace even, where you can put your skills and intellect to use. You’re still working out the deets, but you know it’s going to be so very large.

You reach your destination quicker than you anticipated, but perhaps that’s just your anxiety talking. You know where you are immediately; the strange red tree is a dead giveaway. You know it well. Its trunk is impossibly thick and striped across the middle, a deep maroon sash. Not even the nearby river of toxic waste can mar its natural beauty. Neddy loves this tree, and you’ve taken him pieces of it sometimes, when you know he needs cheering up or to feel closer to you. Closer to the above-ground, where he seldom can tread, but loves hearing stories about.

  
But as much as you love your brother his visage slips from your mind, because you’ve found who you’re looking for.

She’s lounging against the tree, bass laying across her lap, dressed in a stitched striped shirt that almost reaches her knees, covering the copious tears in her blue jeans. At some point since you last saw her she had re-pierced the bridge of her left ear, four steel studs lining it. Her right hand is resting across the strings, the left against her side, gaze skyward. Your immediate reaction is to smile, knowing that your best friend is safe and you were totes overreacting. But then you take full stock of her. Even from seven yards away, in the dark no less, you can tell something is wrong. She’s tense, her fingers curled into claws around her bass’s staff. There’s a rise and fall in her chest, and it makes  _ you  _ tense, because she only elects to breathe to talk, sing, and steady her nerves.

Yes, something is definitely wrong here.

You take a step towards her, then stop. Dealing with her in a vulnerable state is always a bit tricky. She’s far more in tune with her emotions than you are, but she lacks the cool logic you possess, and so she’s prone to emotional outbursts, then drowns in guilt about it, spirals out of control. You’re not afraid, not  _ of  _ her anyway. She has demonic strength and a whole flew of preternatural powers, but would never use them against you. No, you’re worried  _ for  _ her, because she’ll turn all of that turmoil inward. She tries to hide it from you, and while she’s quite adept at stealth you just know her too well. Her eyes always give her away. The fear.

You’re not sure if she’s afraid now, but you can tell by the way she’s holding herself that she’s at the very least upset. You hate it. It’s not her fault, and you can’t blame her,  _ won’t  _ blame her, but it does something to you. You feel a sense of protectiveness you’ve never felt before, a sense of affection that’s foreign but, if you’re honest with yourself, isn’t unwelcome. Should best friends feel this way about one another? You aren’t sure, having no real experience with anyone but her, but yet again that’s neither here nor there. Something deep inside of you tells you that she needs you now. You have to learn how you can help her.

Once more you take a step towards her, and once more you restrain yourself from approaching. You need a plan of action before you approach her, because the last thing you want to do is scare her off. She’s your best friend, and you don’t want her to perceive you as someone unsafe. As your over-analytical mind rotates the puzzle in your mind you stash the tracker deep inside the messenger bag. Without thought you pull out a new toy, and your brief bafflement turns into pleasure as you silently thank your ample subconscious for its endless clever ideas.

Armed now with both a plan and a lie you make your way towards her, not being overly loud but making just enough noise to announce your presence. She stills startles briefly, and that doesn’t bode well either, but she turns to you, blinks in confusion, then smirks that lop-sided smirk at you, an expression that doesn’t meet her eyes. “What up, brainlord?” In spite of the playfil taunt of a greeting you smile. The first time she ever called you ‘brainlord’ you briefly huffed before realizing two things simultaneously: The first being that it was an entirely accurate description, the second being that she meant it affectionately, a nickname that only she’s allowed to call you. “What brings you out so late? Followin’ me?”

You are, but she doesn’t need to know that. Instead you hold up the device in your hands, another rectangular box, this one bright green. Not by design, but from constant staining. It has no screen, just three buttons that glow a soft amber, red, and green, as well as two steel prongs sticking from the side. The excuse leaves your mouth without thought. If you can’t trust your brain who can you trust? “Testing the lichen near the lake. I’ve noticed that vicinity of the lake has been oddly clean lately, and I’m curious as to if they have something to do with it. If so I could use them to assist in cleaning up the toxic waste river. The one that’s interfering with my construction blueprints.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were going to just drown the sucker in candy? Since it’s… absorbent? ‘Cause… sugar?” Your smile brightens, her comment warming you. Warming you because you  _ know  _ she doesn’t understand the bulk of your science biz, but she still listens attentively, retaining that which is so important to you as best she can. Because she cares. If you’re honest with yourself you’re not used to someone sincerely caring about you; short of Science (both the field of study and the pet) and Young Mr. Creampuff she’s the only being you’ve ever met that values you as a person without ulterior motive.

You ease yourself next to her, leaning against her shoulder out of habit. In response her own habit kicks into effect as her arm leaves her side to wrap around your waist, her cheek resting on your head. A perfectly normal, completely platonic gesture on both of your parts. After all, she enjoys physical affection, and while it’s not always your preference you’re happy to indulge her, but only her. As a good, platonic friend would. Or so you tell yourself, because maybe if you repeat that to yourself enough you’ll start to believe it, and that weird fluttery feeling will make more sense. It’s been quite vocal lately and, really, it’s distasteful. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure using sugar to negate the natural acidity of the toxic waste will be effective, but it can’t hurt to have a back-up plan, you know?” Of course she does. She’s all about back-up plans. With a hum of acknowledgment she nods and you both fall into a comfortable silence. Comfortable, but you know you need to break it. “But what are you doing out here?”

She snorts. “I’m nocturnal, Bon.”

A poor evasion, but it’s too risky to call her out directly. “Yeah, but… why here?” You keep your tone curious; this is a topic of intrigue, not concern. As far as she knows, at least.

She gives a half shrug, unwilling to risk you leaving her shoulder. She enjoys your warmth. Being an animated corpse means she has none of her own, and although she scarcely talks about her past you know she used to be alive and hypothesize that she misses it. “Just seems like a good place to chill, you know?”

A plausible explanation, because it’s certainly pretty enough. The grasslands are quiet here, with only the faint sounds of animal life echoing in the distance. The gentle breeze is cool, a reminder that the seasons are due for a change any day now. The sky is bright and clear, the moon and millions of stars singing to her. Even if you can’t hear their song you know it’s true; you know magic is a lie, but this is the closest it comes to being real. Still, it’s an odd spot, especially for a woman who prefers to float and not sit on what she often describes as her perfect butt. But that’s something you can’t call her out on either, so you just nod, stretching against her, a silent signal that you have no plans to go anywhere anytime soon. “It’s a nice night, yes. I often forget how peaceful the night is.”

She laughs softly, a sign of endearment, not mockery. “Yeah, you’re usually hold up in your lab. Not healthy, Bon. Ya gotta get out more, you know?”

Opening granted, you reach down, lacing your fingers. Another pure, innocent gesture. “I’m out right now!” You let insincere indignation slip into your voice and huff, the force of her eyeroll something you can feel even without looking at it.

“Dude, you’re out here working. Doesn’t count.”

You tap her bass, a teasing gesture she easily recognizes. You can tell by the fact her forked tongue sticks out at you. Immortal or not, she’ll be nineteen forever. “ _ You’re  _ working.”

“Bon, jamming isn’t  _ work.  _ It’s letting your soul be free.”

You raise an eyebrow, turning to face her. “Even when it’s practicing for your concert next week?”

Another half-hearted shrug. “Still not work, BonBon. You gotta learn the difference between working your butt off and kicking back.” But despite the light-hearded tone there’s an undercurrent there, something you can’t place. Until- “...I’m kinda surprised you remember the concert’s next week.”

There’s an unasked question there. Not asking questions you don’t want to know the answer to is a mutual life policy, but it still startles you to hear it from her, even in subtext. You know that just as she possesses the predisposition to disappear for days at a time you’re prone to being a neglectful friend, too wrapped up in your own biz, but you feel a pang nevertheless because, above all, that remark, that subtle prod, is a question of trust. And she has serious trust issues. “My guy, of course I remember. I’m obvs going to be there.”

“...You are?” 

She sounds exactly like she’s trying not to be hopeful and you quickly search your memory for any sign that you may have given any impression otherwise. To your confusion you can’t find any, further cementing your hypothesis that something else is bothering her. You offer her hand a gentle squeeze, which she returns. “Yup! I’ll be right there to support you.” As a friend and nothing more. Or so you tell yourself. Because you’re starting to learn that her concerts are merely an acquired taste, and you’re coming to terms with the undeniable fact that you love her music. It reminds you of a book on ornithology that you read as a child, where you learned that some birds find mates by falling for their song. Deep in your heartguts you can see the appeal.

She relaxes at your declaration. “...Thanks, Bon.”

And now for the gambit. “Is that why you’re out here?” You know she does her best songcrafting under the night sky, so it’s hardly a suspicious prod.

Still, she sighs softly. “...Nah. That’s not it.”

It’s not a shutdown, so you prod her. Well, less prod, and more gently entice her to open up. “So what’s so special about here?,” you ask gently, disguising your soft tone with a well-timed yawn.

It works and she sighs once more. After a long pause, the only sound being her hand trailing her bass’s strings, she glances skyway. “...Just give it a minute.”

You raise an eyebrow, but return to her shoulder. Content, you say nothing, just enjoying her presence. You’re not used to missing people, and it always strikes you how strong the sentiment can be. How nice it is to have someone that makes your heart flutter. Just as you feel yourself begin to doze she wiggles her shoulder, softly nudging you awake. “Hey, Bon. Look up,” she whispers. You glance skyward, your curiosity quickly giving way to awe.

Logically, you knew it existed. Of course you did, how could you not? You’re a woman of science, perhaps  _ the  _ woman of science, but she’s right and you spend the bulk of your time held up in your cabin’s rudimentary laboratory. But that just makes the majesty of the meteor shower all the more poignant, and you sit in admiration, the natural beauty of Ooo rendering you dumbstruck. Out of your peripheral you see that you’re not the only one stupefied; she’s staring at the sky as well, just as entranced as you were, perhaps moreso. But her eyes are glazed and distant, she’s tense, and while she’s smiling it’s melancholy. You doubt she’s even in your world anymore, figuratively at least, and you frown in concern. You can’t let her retreat into her thoughts for too long. They’re often toxic. “It’s beautiful.” She nods absently, withdrawn. That won’t do. It can’t. “I’ve heard about this meteor shower. It comes annually, doesn’t it?” Another nod, just as distant, and you push. “Do you come here to watch it every year?” She says nothing, but bites her lip, her fang easily piercing the flesh. You take a chance. “It’s important to you, isn’t it?”

She hesitates. She often says that it’s hard to say no to you, a comment that makes you wonder right in this moment just how literally she means it. But she breaks, as she always does. “...Yeah.” Albeit a small break, but a break nonetheless. But you don’t want to push her too hard, so you wait patiently, encouraging her by cuddling against her shoulder until her arm tightens around your waist in response. While your childhood alone made you physically distant she has true horrors in her past and went the opposite direction, secretly craving affection while resisting every impulse to get close to people. You’re not sure how you slipped in, but that’s a mental exercise for another day. “I… used to watch it a lot.” More subtext, but you can’t decipher it.

“When you were younger?” A daring move, but her proximity emboldens you. It always does.

Your gamble pays off and she sighs again, this time in resignation. “...Yeah. I think I used to watch it with my mom. After she…,” she trails off, eyes glassy once more until she shakes her vision clear, returning to the present. Returning to you. “...Yeah. After that Simon and I would watch it. He taught me about it. We did that every year. After he..,” she hesitates, but presses onward, “...went north it was just me and Schwabl for awhile. I wanted to show the humans, but they had to bail before it came back. So now it’s just me.”

Your eyes soften at the explanation and you offer her hand a reassuring squeeze. It takes a moment for her to return the favor. “So you watch it to remember them.” It’s a statement, not a question, and while she doesn’t agree she doesn’t contest it either. You quickly do the math, run the numbers, calculate how many meteor showers she must have watched alone. Despite your generally favorable opinion of numbers you don’t like that one. You struggle to find something reassuring to say, something that doesn’t sound like an insincere platitude. Because you’re  _ not  _ insincere, but you’re not so skilled with heartgut emotions. You find yourself both pitying and envying how naturally they come to her.

You flounder too long and miss your opportunity to reach out; the shower isn’t even over yet and she’s already withdrawing her arm and moving to stand. You get the feeling that you’ve violated something very personal, but tell yourself it’s for the Greater Good. Your mind is already breaking down the situation, analyzing every detail you’ve observed, formulating a strategy to counteract the sad display before you. It’s a puzzle, a cruel one, because it afflicts the person you care about most, the person who has always gone out of her way to protect you from the darkness she knows to infect the world. You realize that, perhaps, you need to protect her from herself, because dwelling as she is isn’t healthy in the least. Because that darkness often threatens to infect  _ her _ .

“Hey, I’m gonna bounce. Gotta finish up my setlist, see if I can figure out what kinda crowd I’ll be playing for. You want a ride home?”

Trick question. You want to spend more time with her, but you don’t want to go home. But you know her, and you know she has to be allowed to retreat or she’ll shut down. And so you nod, and she helps you to stand. Before you can even thank her for the offer she’s scooping you up, and you allow your knees to rest over her arm as she supports your back. You barely have enough time to store your needless gadget before she takes off. Your head naturally rests against her chest, and if you didn’t know any better you could have sworn her blush matched your own. It’s dark, though. You’re probably seeing things.

As you meander back to your cabin you both relax, the tension giving way to something far more comfortable, and you smile as you watch the world below you and the stars above. You’ve been coming to the opinion lately that the night is better than the day and cannot possibly imagine what would lead you to such a conclusion. Nope, can’t imagine at all. All too soon you’re back home, and she slowly lowers you on your porch, just as reluctant to let go as you are. She floats before you, rubbing the back of her neck nervously. “So… I’ll see you at the concert?” You nod. “...Promise?” You nod once more and offer her a tight hug to emphasize your commitment to the date. ‘Date’ being the strict definition. As in the day something is occurred. Not the romantic kind. Obvs. That would be just silly.

Wouldn’t it?

But you keep your promise - how could she think you wouldn’t? - and the concert inspires you. Somehow, despite you coming from two starkly different worlds, her work always feeds your own, spurring your creativity and lifting your spirits. As she plays to a packed audience in a cramped club (you wouldn’t know that discomfort though, you always get a front row seat or she breaks arms), you know exactly what you’re going to do.

The next year passes quickly for one of you, slowly for the other. Neither of you mention the meteor shower, but you have other changes to occupy your time. In the interim you reach the conclusion that the best way to take care of that toxic waste flowing through the territory you intend to inhabit is indeed copious amounts of candy, and you reach the conclusion that your laboratory, as small as it is, is too quiet, and she begins to quietly practice as you throw yourself into your sciencing. She joins you in your scavenging, helps you scour the ruins of the old world for pieces and trinkets, some useful, some decoration. You find a lovely soft pink tea set, ceramic with a lavender mosaic pattern, in an abandoned store many miles from the Grasslands, and you even manage to find enough pieces to fix a pre-War camera that she found, a device she quickly thrust back in your hands. “Take it. You’re gonna need to find a place for the castle you’re gonna build, right? Gotta take lots of pictures so you know what you’re doin’, BonBon.” That warms you as well, because she’s a prankster and sarcastic, but she believes in your dream and she believes in you.

That stupid flutter again.

By the time the seasons come full circle once more your surprise is ready. Granted, it’s not a big surprise, just something simple that you literally threw together in a day or two, but she’s never needed grand gestures. In contrast to you, her joys are so simple. You admire that. So you watch the calendar carefully, constantly checking and double-checking the high-powered telescope you built in the backyard the month prior (you had no room in your cabin for a planetarium, you know, you tried), timing everything down to ten minute intervals. But finally the day has come once more, and at mere hours before sunset you leave your cabin once more, swiftly making your way once more to the tree and set to work.

To call her surprised to see you is an understatement, but here you meet, her in black sneakers, a grey and red flannel shirt and black slacks, you in a violet skirt and simple lavender shirt, sleeves and hem lined with mosaic lace, purple sneakers tucked beneath you, stuffed yellow messenger bag at your side. As she approaches you wave, practically beaming, a sincere expression at seeing your friend. She had disappeared to a place she calls her ‘homeland’ for a week prior, and even though you try to avoid such emotions you can admit to yourself that you missed her. “Bon? What are you doing here?”

She sounds perplexed and you have to resist giggling. It’s hard to surprise her; she’s naturally insightful and eerily accurate when it comes to predicting situations. When you pat next to you she hesitates, but soon relents and floats to your side, landing and sitting next to you, never losing her nonplussed expression. As much as you’re enjoying it, though, it’s logically counterproductive to your plan. “I thought we could watch the meteor shower together.” You force all of the sincerity and affection you possess into that one simple statement, loading it with so much sentiment it threatens to burst.

“...Why?”

Abruptly she sounds almost scared, like a wounded animal afraid of the treat it’s being offered because it’s so very certain that it’s a trick. But you expected that reaction, and with slow, deliberate movements you lean against her, taking her cool, calloused hand in your own. “I know you watch the meteor shower to remember everyone you’ve lost.” She bites her lip, eyes darting away. That’s okay though, you were prepared. “I know you’ve spent the bulk of your formative years alone. But… you’re not anymore, you know? I’m here.” You tug her hand gently, and she follows your lead, leaning against you. 

“...There’s not..” She looks away. “...Bon, I really appreciate the thought, but… you don’t get it. I’m  _ actually  _ immortal. I don’t have a choice. You’re just… you can choose not to be. You can just… add biomass. Or remove it. I’m not really sure how it works with you.” You pull her against you, a hug that gradually morphs into a hold, your free hand rubbing her back soothingly. You had expected this as well, because somewhere along the way she had grown to assume she was always destined to be alone, surrounded by a sea of graves.

“I’m not leaving,” you whisper soothingly. “I know you don’t believe me yet, but that’s alright. You’ll see. I’ll show you. You’re my best friend. I know you consider immortality a curse, but… now we get to hang out forever. And it would be adding biomass, as removing it lowers my biological age, whereas additional candy biomass increases it.” She blinks, almost jumping at your declaration. You don’t blame her, you’re not exactly known for expressing squishy feelings. “Come here.” Not giving her a choice in the matter you pull her against you, letting her absorb your warmth. When she feels a warm pink blanket wrap around her her resolve breaks and she relaxes in your embrace. The embrace you’re trying really,  _ really  _ hard not to think about, because she’s oddly nice to hold.

You shove that thought away before it can do any damage, to you or your friendship.

“...Hey Bon?”

“Mm?”

“...Do you know about the stars?”

You do, and for the next hour you entertain her by pointing out the constellations, telling her how stars are formed as you repeat the information you once absorbed from an ancient pre-War tome on astrology that you happened to have just read cover to cover for reasons that were almost definitely unrelated to the situation you’re finding yourself in right now. As the night progresses, as you turn her thoughts away from her past, she relaxes, smiling when she asks you how your work is coming. Unable to hide your grin you plunge your hand into your bag, unfurling the blueprints for the building that would soon become your castle. As the stars watch from above she joins into your planning, suggesting materials for the palace’s construction, offering ideas of how she could acquire them and where from. Because she insists in being part of your work, almost demanding that you let her help you, always has, and you hope she always will.

When a small yawn escapes you she chuckles, carefully tucking the valuable scrolls back into your bag. You’re afraid she’ll pull away, repeating last year when she insisted she take you home, but instead she returns to your arms, settling without shame or embarrassment. When her eyes close a soft purr escapes her and you freeze, then grin. It’s an involuntary noise, an automatic reflex whenever she’s truly calm and content. The first time it happened she had flushed deeply, muttering that it comes from her half-demon bloodline and that as much as she wants to she can’t control it. It Just Happens. Unlike then, though, you don’t draw attention to it this time, too elated knowing that you’re successfully turning a traditionally morose night into one filled with laughter, that you’re breaking her preoccupation with what she’s lost and turning it into a celebration of what she’s found.

You’re struck with an idea and snake your freehand back into your bag, withdrawing its final object: the camera. “Let’s take a picture.” 

Her eyes slowly open and she yawns. “Nice. Give it here.” It’s suddenly snatched from your hands telekinetically and you shoot her a pointed look, receiving an innocent smile in return that is in no way genuine. Sometimes you think she likes to startle you on purpose. And by ‘think’, you mean that you know she does, because you’re secretly convinced she’s more imp than demon. “Come here, nerd.” This time your position shifts and she pulls you against her, and you blush at the contact. To distract yourself you pull the blanket around the both of you, wriggling as she attempts to steady the tiny device. Partly to get comfortable, partly for the fun of it, because you’re entitled to have a playful demeanor on occasion. “Bon!,” she admonishes, but can’t keep from smiling. “Geeze, hold still you dork.” Not willing to suffer any order you pointedly reject it, squirming more under the pretense of wanting more blanket. Or for her to have more blanket. You honestly aren’t sure which excuse you gave, but it doesn’t matter; she’s finally gotten you to hold still through sheer brute force of her own embrace, and she  _ finally  _ manages to get a shot, dropping the camera in your waiting hands in her victory.

Without hesitating you pocket the camera, carefully. It’s not like the device itself is particularly fragile, but that picture is precious and you can’t risk losing it before you develop it. Not after everything you’ve gone through to get it. To get her smile, her laugh, her beautiful, melodic laugh. You realize that the meteor shower has tapered out and, unlike last year, she’s still here, still with you. And that’s the moment you realize it, realize what that strange flutter in your chest actually means. Your eyes dart to your bag, to the blueprints, just for a moment, and that’s when you realize, that’s when you  _ know _ : no matter what building you construct, or where you build it, or how sturdy its walls, it will never be home without the mischievous vampire in your arms.

You’re okay with this.


End file.
